ashes to ashes
by bellmare
Summary: Dies Irae: "Tearful will be that day, on which from the ashes arises the guilty man who is to be judged." —Axel.


You remember being a boy, remember being young and foolish and naïve and idealistic, everything you're _not_ now and wish you still were.

It is because of your past, and that _foolish _childhood wish—to remember, and to be remembered—that you continue to keep your diaries, continue to keep track of meaningless days which bleed seamlessly into one another, until you can no longer tell the difference between them, until events start to lose their own individual distinctions. Files build up in swaying, dusty stacks upon your desk, until you can no longer tell where the new briefings begin and the old mission reports end. But yet, despite your endless load of paperwork, you always find time to fill in your journal, pen a few words in atrocious, illegible handwriting into the margins at the end of every day.

All your memories lie upon the table in a haphazard pile, waiting to be sorted through, to be relived. It is a long time before you can finally bring yourself to thumb through the stacks of journals, and when you do, it feels as though the years are falling away, and once more, you're Lea, and you remember being scared and terrified but _determined _when you arrive in the City of Shadows, and trying to make the best of it even as you are manhandled up to the silent fortress.

When you flick through those pages, it feels as though you're watching time rewind, and you're aging backwards, going back to the point which demarcated the beginning of the end.

_So apparently this Zigzag…_Xigbar_ guy tells me I'm a Nobody. What's that meant to mean, anyways? Besides, I'm somebody. I'm going to become somebody _big_, and make a name for myself. Xaldin said it's the stupidest thing he's ever heard, but I'll prove him wrong. I'll prove them _all_ wrong._

_It's been a few days since we got here. Tried to escape and make a run for it, but these weird wriggly things appeared and carted me back. Spent the rest of the day with Xigbar – target practise, and I was the target. I shouldn't have left Isa. But I can't find him, I don't know where he is. Vexen tells me he's in the Infirmary, still out cold. It's almost been a week. I'm worried. What if he never wakes up? What will happen to our promise then?_

_Isa woke up today. He's a mess. Apparently those Heartless things chewed him up real good, and he says he feels like one giant ache and pain. That empty feeling in my chest hasn't gone away. It's weird. But yet, when I finally got to talk to Isa, it lessened slightly, but it was still there. Like indigestion, only not quite. I can't put my finger on it, and as soon as I try to figure out what it is, it goes away, but lingers like an old injury._

It's almost _laughable_, but at the same time _painful_, to read your own words from ten years ago.

You were sixteen then. Cocky, confident, self-assured. You thought you knew your place in the world, knew you were destined to be so much more. As you thumb through the pages, you see the entries getting shorter and shorter, increasingly brusque, until they can barely pass as sentences, and it seems even to you now that you were merely going through the motions of conforming to this established routine of filling in your journal.

_Got sent off to some faraway little world today. Weird little place, with these little clogs and oddly-shaped souvenirs. I brought one of them back, though don't know why I bothered. It's sort of nice, and reminds me of something I can't quite remember._

_Mission with Zexion to some island place. Little smartass got mouthy and I brained him. Ended up getting swallowed by his book. Got to revisit old memories. Can't believe I got eaten by a Wyvern and still ended up more or less in one piece. Can't believe Isa was outmatched so badly, especially given what he's become now. Can't believe Zexion's only thirteen. Hasn't he heard of respecting his elders? Sheesh. At least Isa will understand._

_Went to Twilight Town today. Found sea-salt ice-cream there. Haven't had the stuff for years. When I eat it, it's like nothing changed. Found myself a comfy place to sit and just think about things. It's the first time I've ever been to a world for reasons other than missions. It's pretty nice._

_Dragged Isa—_Saïx_—over there, just to relieve our memories for old time's sake. Didn't talk much. I suppose we've passed that stage where words aren't even enough. Yeah, right._

By this point, time has caught up with you, and you were eighteen when these were written. You didn't see it then, but the end was fast approaching you at breakneck speed, all-too-ready to smash into you and knock the breath from your lungs. You didn't know that back then, your life was already falling down around your ears, and it was only a matter of time before everything you ever knew followed suit.

_Got laid low by giant Heartless in Port Royal. Can barely move—luckily Luxord was with me, or I'd be a goner. Feel like every little effort is going to kill me. Hurts to breathe. Probably broke some ribs. Now I finally understand why Isa was so angry at me after I tried to patch him up._

_Off to Halloween Town for a 'nice easy mission'. Bloody higher-ups haven't heard of a fucking vacation. Ended up as a decaying mummy in the stupid dress-up world. Wonder what that says about me and my current state. Still trying to wash embalming fluid out of my hair. Damn stuff reeks. At least bandages came in handy—still hurts like hell to breathe in too deeply. Need more antiseptic. Feel like I'm going to die. Would quite like to, actually._

_Recon with Xaldin at some godforsaken hamlet. Waste of time. Recon turned to attack. Bye-bye, dinky little world. Had pretty good food though._

_Another mission. Sent to some place with artsy-fartsy cats. Just realised how precious having opposable thumbs is. Never again. Starving when I came back. Loaded with more mission briefings and report crap, looks like another all-nighter for me._

_Meeting with the rest of the Organisation today. Fucking pillar-chairs are the most damned uncomfortable things ever. Came back from stakeout in some place with a massive church and all these bells which never seemed to stop ringing. Had to pretend I was some sort of homeless person in order to get much info. Sometimes, I wonder which is the lesser of two evils: sleeping in some dingy street for the sake of a mission, or these bloody chairs. Marluxia didn't show again today. I wonder what he's planning._

It is only once you turn the page that you realise why the past few months have seemed oddly out of place, why they don't quite fit in with the rest of your memories. It was the dawn of a new beginning, even if you didn't realise it then.

When you read these final few entries, you can _almost _remember what it's like to have emotions, to be able to feel _anything._

_New kid joined the Organisation. Pretty clueless sort, barely even aware of the fact that he's alive. Would probably forget his head if it wasn't stuck on. Kinda envy him. Wish I could start off with a blank slate._

_Gotta babysit the kid. Already apologised to Saïx_ _about the Reykjavik incident but no go. Big whoop._

_Kid reminds me of those baby ducks which think the first thing they clap eyes on is their mother. At least he's learning fast._

_Since Saïx is getting more distant, invited kid for ice-cream instead. Was like talking to a brick wall. S'pose it's understandable. Still envy him. Can't figure out suitably tactful way to ask if we can trade places or something._

_Being sent to C.O. Of course, have to take whole pile of paperwork with me. Might just copy stuff off Vexen and steal his reports. He won't be needing them where he's headed. Saïx owes me._

You sift through the memories like a gold prospector, as though searching for that elusive nugget of truth amid all the lies. It is only during the aftermath of the Oblivion attack that you can stop to gather yourself, and you treasure this time immensely. The floors are a mess of plaster and stonework, shards of glass and smoking ashes, overlaid by a thin film of reports, which are spread out across the ruined marble tiles like some absurd rug. You sit surrounded by scraps of memories, littering the floor around you, and claw blindly at the piles of paperwork with unbridled fury, until there is nothing left of these chronicles of your pathetic history, save for shreds of paper which flutter down through the air like monochromatic feathers.

They're everywhere now, the vestiges of your memories. On the floor, in the air, wadded in wall scones, in your hair; you sit on a carpet of recollections, feel them rustle beneath the heels of your hands like dry leaves. They're in your mouth and covering your face, and when you breathe out, you send a miniature maelstrom of scraps dancing out in front of you, only to have them fall back down to earth, as though magnetically attracted to you.

You can never escape from your memories, no matter how hard you try.

It takes a lot of effort to finally lever yourself up from where you lie on the floor, surrounded by the ruins of Castle Oblivion. With a painful effort that seems to reverberate within the very marrow of your bones, you reach forwards and grasp the pen for what you hope will be the last time, and begin to write.

_The traitors and loyal ones alike have fallen. There's no turning back now. Time to set the ball into motion, and make this one hell of a day to remember. _

_Someday, I'll be remembered, and for all the wrong reasons._

You rise to your feet at last, and take a final look around the chamber. Then, you can't take it anymore, and you have the sudden urge to get _out_, to go _anywhere_. Anything to escape from this morose mess of memories.

You drop your crumpled, tattered fragment of paper onto the floor, where it lies amidst the chunks of masonry and dusty journals and shreds of reports, briefings and meeting-notes. It stays there for several seconds, until—

You snap your fingers. The paper bursts into flames. You watch as the fire consumes first that scrap – reducing it to a smouldering pile of ash – and climbs higher and higher, licking greedily at the abundance of fuel surrounding it.

When you turn your back to the hall and walk into the blooming gate of darkness that welcomes you like an old friend, you can feel nothing but the heat of the inferno, raging behind your back. You can only hear the hissing crackle of burning paper, smell the bitter, acrid tang of a lifetime's worth of memories going up in smoke.

All is finally well. The ghosts of the past will rest in peace at last, smouldering in their funeral pyres.

**- - x x x x x - -**

**epilogue. **_Standard disclaimers apply. Related to _Dichotomy _and _Ties That Bind, Ties That Break.


End file.
